Image of shelter


Lines Before Leaving for Work

In the poem I really don't have time to write this morning
it is still last night, and you and I are dancing, slowly,
cheek to cheek, knee to knee, while the dinner dishes wait us out
on the disheveled table, and a Gershwin concert suite plays
on the radio. I'm singing softly in your ear -- Somebody loves you,
I wonder who. May-be it's me
-- trying to remember the words
as Ella Fitzgerald sang them years ago, on a record I still have
but can't play. We two are turning and swaying
as the candles flicker on the table, and by the dozen our reflections
are turning and swaying in the bowls of the wine glasses lined up
in the china cabinet, in the goblets and the vases, in every facet
of the cut-glass salt shakers -- a whole movie musical's worth
of us's. In the poem I don't really have time to write
before leaving for work, everything is just as our musical
would have it be.

May and November, 1999

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